Chapter Three

After two weeks of listening to Ron rail about the injustice of Hermione being forced to work with, as he said, "that evil nutter Malfoy" (at least that was the description that didn't make Hermione blush), she decided it would be up to her to make the first move in the new, unwanted partnership, since Malfoy hadn't so much as glanced her way during Standard Healing or Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione suspected Dumbledore had a system for keeping tabs on which students were actually practicing together, and she did not want her grade to suffer because of Malfoy's indifference.

So, after their Standard Healing class on a Monday morning (taught by Madam Pomfrey, whom Hermione utterly adored), she moved quickly to the door and managed to catch Malfoy's arm before he could slide past her.

"What?" he demanded, rather rudely.

Hermione clenched her teeth around a similarly rude response. Fighting would not help her grade in Dumbledore's class – though she had already decided that if Malfoy refused to cooperate, she was going directly to the Headmaster to request a new partner.

The room had emptied by the time she replied, "We need to work out a schedule for practicing our Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons."

Malfoy arched a blond eyebrow at her. Hermione hugged her books tighter to her chest, wishing he didn't manage to look rakishly handsome when she was certain he was about to be insulting. Another little secret she would never share with Ron or Harry was that Malfoy, bastard though he was, was one of the best-looking boys in school.

"So…When would be good for you?" she prompted, as the silence became uncomfortable.

Malfoy dropped his bookbag onto a desk, crossed his arms over his chest and studied her closely. "You mean you didn't go to Dumbledore and ask for a different partner?"

She started. Where had he gotten that idea? "No, I didn't. Don't you think he would have paired you up with someone else by now if I had?"

He shrugged. "I don't feature our Headmaster much cares how well I do in his class."

A protest sprang to Hermione's lips, but she quashed it. Malfoy would never believe Dumbledore was a bigger person than that, not the sort to wish failure on a student because of a parent's wrongs, so she decided to save her breath.

"Well, I haven't asked for a new partner, and I think we should meet soon and catch up with everyone else," she said in a rush. Somehow, conversations with Malfoy seemed easier when conducted quickly. "Harry and Ron have been using the Transfiguration classroom, so I thought I might ask – "

"No thanks," Malfoy interrupted. "Transfiguration is Gryffindor territory."

"It's a classroom, Malfoy."

"Okay, then why don't we ask Snape if we can practice in the Potions classroom?"

The idea of spending her evenings in the dungeons with Malfoy hardly topped Hermione's list of Favorite Things To Do. She glared at him, knowing she should have anticipated an argument over something as simple as where to meet.

Why does he have to make everything so bloody difficult? No wonder he doesn't have any real friends-!

She felt guilty for the thought even as it occurred to her. Not that Malfoy had done much to engender good will at Hogwarts, but she couldn't help thinking, when she saw him bolting down his lunch alone in the Great Hall, how lonely he must have been without Crabbe and Goyle hanging around.

Since she had no intention of intimating her sympathy to Malfoy, she focused instead on finding a compromise to the meeting place. "Maybe we could ask Madam Pomfrey about using this room," she suggested. "Or Professor Dumbledore might let us use the Dark Arts classroom."

"I know a place where we wouldn't be interrupted," Malfoy offered, rather tentatively. "It's quiet, out of the way – I'm not sure anyone knows about it but me, really."

A tingle of apprehension shot up Hermione's spine. Go somewhere alone, with Malfoy, where no one else knew where to find them? That just sounded like asking for trouble.

Face it, girl, it also sounds a tiny bit exciting, her inner voice chided. What's he going to do? Murder you? That'd be just a tad suspicious, wouldn't it?

Granted, the possibility that Malfoy would lure her off to harm her was far-fetched – he would be the automatic first suspect, and she doubted he was eager to join his father in Azkaban. Besides, although they were certainly enemies, it wasn't as if they'd taken blood-oaths against one another; he didn't have anything to gain by hurting her.

And, in the end, Hermione was insightful enough to realize that if she wanted Malfoy's cooperation, she needed to give a little. So she agreed, "All right. Where is this place?"

"I'll show it to you."

"Now?"

"No, Granger, not now." He smirked at her eagerness, and to her horror, Hermione blushed. "Eager to be off with me, aren't you?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she grated out. Thankfully, the blush faded as quickly as it had appeared, enabling her to challenge with some dignity, "So when, then?"

Malfoy pretended to mentally shuffle through a packed social calendar. In spite of herself, Hermione almost grinned.

Almost.

"How about, tonight at nine? I'll meet you out front of the Great Hall."

Hermione hesitated. "Nine? That's just two hours before curfew."

"Just how long are you planning to practice, Granger? Not all of us plan our lives around studying."

She managed not to blush again, serious dislike for Malfoy creeping back into what had been a momentary respite of outright loathing. "Fine," she agreed stiffly. "Nine o'clock tonight sounds fine."

"I hope you've done your studying," Malfoy teased, slinging his bag over his shoulder on his way out the door. "Don't think I'll go easy on you just because you're a girl."

Staring after him with fire in her eyes, Hermione muttered, "Count on it, asshole."

Draco worked steadily on homework in the Slytherin common room until ten minutes to nine. Then he grabbed his wand and sashayed past a group of fourth-years who eyed him warily, barely resisting the urge to turn and yell, "Abra-cadabra!" in their direction.

School thus far had not been easy, yet admittedly, it hadn't been as brutal as Draco had anticipated. Mostly, he was ignored. Only a few people had the guts to make any remarks about his father at all, and those had all been responded to with enough force – magical and physical – to remind everyone that Draco Malfoy was not the sort to be walked on.

Perhaps the biggest blow had come just that day, when he was unceremoniously booted off the Quidditch team. Draco realized he wasn't a phenomenal Quidditch player, and that knowledge had sharpened the sting of his removal. His teammates hadn't even had the balls to tell him to his face, he reflected, stomping down the main staircase toward the Great Hall. Some cowardly git had dropped an official note, signed by Professor Snape (who wasn't in charge of appointing players, after all), onto his pillow that morning.

And now, he had an evening of sparring with Hermione Granger to look forward to.

She was waiting nervously in front of the Great Hall, still clad in the knee-length black skirt and white button-down that comprised part of her Hogwarts uniform. He tried not to remember the curves she'd shown off at the train station or to notice how darling her new haircut still looked, but he had to admit (to himself, anyway) that Granger was becoming a knock-out.

He wasn't the only one to think so, either, Draco knew. Weasley had been making google-eyes at her since second year, but this term, he'd noticed Potter staring wistfully after her as she swept gracefully out of the Great Hall. Not that Draco was shocked by this development, of course. He couldn't imagine a more fitting pair than Granger and Potter, possibly the two biggest do-gooders in the history of Hogwarts.

Hermione seemed surprised that he hadn't bailed on her. "It's this way," he said in greeting.

She fell into step beside him as they descended a narrow staircase toward the dungeons. They said little as they made their way past the level of the classrooms, but Draco noticed her eyes darting about uncertainly. He took a grim pleasure from disturbing her composure, yet he also noted that she didn't question him. Trust was impossible between them, wasn't it?

Don't get any ideas. She'd do anything for a perfect score on an exam – that's the only reason she's here right now, because it involves a class.

Finally, two levels below the classrooms, Draco stepped off the staircase and opened a heavy wooden door. Its hinges creaked from lack of use. Reluctantly, Hermione stepped past him and into the room that had been Draco's private lair for six years.

"Oh my," she breathed.

Draco was pleased by her response. Unbeknownst to many (probably not Granger, who seemed to have memorized Hogwarts: A History), an underground spring flowed beneath the castle. In some places, the lower levels were cut so deep into the earth that the spring actually ran through the castle, conducted along a series of marble-lined aqueducts that guided it back into the ground where the source plunged deeper. This room, totally unused now for centuries, had once been a bath-house for the professors, fed by the warm underground spring itself.

Hermione wandered around the stone archways, admiring the colorful patterns on the marble visible through the crystal-clear water. Four pools were dotted around the room; marble walkways cut between them, leading to narrow stone dressing benches on the far wall from the door. The water poured in through large spouts shaped like lion's heads; the spouts could be opened by a rusty crank beside the door, and the pools were drained by pulling a lever above the crank.

"Is it warm?" Hermione asked from the edge of a pool.

Draco nodded. "Yeah. Stick your hand in."

Tentatively, she dipped her fingers into the water. "It's like bath water," she exclaimed. He saw the connection form in her mind, and she continued, "This used to be the professors' bath house, didn't it?"

"Yup. You're not the only one who's read Hogwarts: A History."

He meant it as an insult, a jibe at her bookwormish nature, but Hermione actually grinned. "I always wandered if they'd walled it off," she remarked. "It seems a shame not to use it, don't you think?"

"More fun for me," he replied. This scene was starting to get friendlier than Draco was comfortable with, so he slipped off his robe – it was rather humid near the water – and produced his wand. "Let's get started, okay?"

Hermione nodded. Not surprisingly, she had brought her notes, which she flipped open to the protection spells they'd been practicing the week before. "We should probably start with simple disarming spells," she mused.

Draco snorted. "C'mon, Granger, I mastered those in second year."

"Well, wouldn't it be prudent to refresh – "

"Look, do you want to waste our time going over things we already know? I think we're both advanced enough to skip the baby steps."

A chill fell over the room. Draco couldn't help remembering the shape Hermione had been in when she'd returned from the Ministry last spring – moaning in pain, looking pale and drawn. They'd closeted her away in the hospital wing so long he'd wondered if she was really still alive.

Yes, Hermione knew about advanced spells. She had used them; she had been on the receiving end of them. Not for the first time, Draco wondered how well he'd fare against someone with her experience. But he didn't intend to show one ounce of weakness in front of her, that was for damn sure.

"Fine," she answered coldly. "Let's start with personal shields. Do you want to jinx first, or shall I?"

"Hit me," Draco replied with a grim smile.

And so began sixty minutes of vicious attacks. Hermione progressed them steadily through the protection spells laid out in Dumbledore's first two lectures; it was only four spells, but both she and Draco doggedly tested one another's limits, casting jinxes that sometimes had the other face-down on the floor in a prone, petrified position or wobbling around on uncontrollably shaky legs until the counter-jinx was cast.

By the end of it, they had their sleeves rolled up and a number of bruises to show for their pains. "It's ten," Hermione announced promptly after one hour.

Draco, still feeling stiff from the Petrifying curse she'd used on him a few minutes earlier, gladly stuck his wand back in his robe. He would definitely be studying harder before their next session; she'd gotten the better of him far more times than he'd gotten through her defenses, and he was determined not to let his self-esteem suffer any more blows. Not to mention his bruised backside.

"Ready?" he asked, when she made no move toward the door.

"I'm going to take a dip," she replied, gesturing at the water.

Draco's heart did a backflip. "Um, okay…Guess I'll see you around, then."

"You aren't coming?"

She looked undeniably coquettish standing beside the water with one hand on her hip, an unreadable smile playing across her lips. Draco valiantly fought off a blush.

She knows exactly what she's doing, he thought, and she knows exactly how it's affecting me right now. Damn little vixen!

Or maybe she didn't. Maybe he was reading too much into it, projecting a manipulative side onto Hermione that she simply didn't possess. Draco sighed inwardly. He was just too weary from their hour-long battle to figure it out.

Ignoring his screaming muscles, he said crisply, "Enjoy your swim, Granger. See you in class."

"Good night," she called after him, sounding – if he wasn't projecting – a little triumphant.

On the other side of the door, Draco refused to consider whether or not she was skinny-dipping. He had a disturbing suspicion that his dreams that night would be peppered with images of Hermione Granger's sleek, naked form gliding through the crystal-clear water toward him.

She had definitely bested him this time around, in more ways than one. But next time, he would be ready for her.